This past weekend I spent with my family at Smith Rock State Park in Central Oregon. The camping and hiking were fantastic, desert flowers in bloom, the scent of sage on our fingertips, and the sun reigned supreme over it all. Ah. On Sunday my son-in-law, Alex, and I climbed a route called Moscow on the Red Wall — four pitches, over 300 feet (see pic below; route is across the valley, prominent buttress just to the left of Alex) — and were feeling pretty strut worthy when we topped out. (Alex only has one hand — birth defect — so he deserves to feel strut worthy. Me? Not so much. It was strut by association.)
Strut until we hiked around the bend in the river and saw a guy walking a slackline across a crazy chasm in the cliff face. Like most things in life, risk is relative.
My point being that writing is a risk, too, just of a different nature. We gain from writing dangerously, venturing out over the abyss, teetering over our fears. Do it, then strut. You’ll deserve it.